The Galician Parallax (40 page)

At that moment, Badi got up from the meeting and left the room. Minutes later he returned with two men unknown to the rest. ‘Brothers, meet our new brothers from afar.’ Two young Filipinos smiled and bowed before the Arab audience.

The moment the Madrid bombings had been carried out, the al-Qaeda movement wasted no time in triggering off the next terrorist plot, this time aimed at the United Kingdom. Their intention was to attack more than one target. The main one was a major task of coordination intended to start in Manila. The idea was for two members of the Abu Sayyaf group with seafaring experience to somehow access a cruise ship in Europe. This could be achieved by exchanging places at some port with two other genuine Filipino crew members who would be bribed months before with a large sum of money deposited in an offshore bank account. These latter persons, once off the ship, would be given airline passages to anywhere in the world to disappear for good. The process would obviously follow the strict official line of action with proper work permits, visas and the all-important issue of crew identity cards for the bribed stooges. The final kick-off was the destination itself.

Badi continued with the introduction of the two visitors from the Philippines and explained their presence and in brief how they intended to liaise with their group. The details of the attack as well as the exact timing would be worked out nearer the execution dates.

‘We have less than a year, brothers,’ he said. ‘Allah be with us.’

‘Next time you ask for something it’s going to cost you; you old bugger.’

Stan had called up one of his ex-colleagues at the centre to check on the whereabouts of the Maiden Voyages yachts assumed returning back to Falmouth on the last leg of the season’s runs.

‘
Gentle Maiden
is already here and she’s down in Penzance,’ said Officer Janet Limple. ‘
Serene
should be docking in Vigo in the next couple of days. The agency told us they’re not sure what yacht club would be used.’

Stan took note. Changing the subject, Janet asked, ‘When are you coming to visit us, Officer Bullock? We still miss you,
me handsome
.’

He smiled at her last statement; a slight touch of nostalgia broke out. He put the phone down, paused for a moment to assess the information. He looked at the calendar;
Tuesday the 31
^st
; then his watch,
eleven-thirty
. Stan began searching for
Serene Maiden
’s whereabouts; third check lucky.

He was back on the phone, this time dialling up the Baiona Yacht Club, when Yolanda came into his office with a load of documents.

‘It’s the end of the month and these need your signature.’

Stan ignored her. Temper taking over she walked up to the desk and shut off the phone.

‘What’s going on? Isn’t it about time you let me know what you’re up to?’

Stan knew she was right. Since his meeting with Lieutenant Quiroga and subsequent call to Falmouth asking for assistance he’d been moody and irritable. During the past two or three days he’d been able to digest Sergio’s proposals. At times he felt the whole thing was preposterous and nonsensical to pursue, yet at the back of his mind a strange sense of responsibility was gnawing at him. He felt that somehow he had to assist in the investigation. What he didn’t realise was that he had neglected his husbandly duties towards his family. He had completely ignored them.
But how to pacify the waters?
he thought. He came straight out with it.

‘Remember the guy who hung himself in the Bahia? Well, the authorities think it was not a suicide but that the guy was murdered.’

Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Yolanda let go of the phone hook.

‘They’ve asked me to check a few things out; sort of quiet like.’

He got up from his desk, kissed his wife on the cheek, took his jacket off the wall hooks and bid her farewell.

‘Should be back for lunch.’ Pointing at the documents he added, ‘I’ll sign those this afternoon; haven’t time now.’

Half an hour later and as he was motoring down to Baiona along the A-9, he was trying to remember as much as he could about the day that he had to dispose of Don Simmons’ ashes. The strange reactions of Ms Joan Flashman at the funeral parlour as if she was trying to wash her hands of the whole sordid affair kept going around in his mind. Did they jive with a murder plot? As he neared the end of the motorway, Stan had more or less worked out a plan of action to confront
Serene Maiden
’s crew, whoever they were. Whether he could obtain any useful information as Sergio had asked for was another matter. Depending on his approach, it could or could not trigger off a chain reaction with unknown consequences. His sense of responsibility and curiosity was turning into excitement.

The yacht club secretary had been telling Stan that
Serene Maiden
was leaving sometime that afternoon when Yolanda cut off their phone conversation.

Jerry Fulton was on the yacht down by the wharf doing the usual checks before their final run across the Bay of Biscay en route to the UK. Glen Richards was at the club bar having a beer with the three passengers, college students from Winchester University. Stan parked the car just outside the Baiona Parador and walked into the club premises having cleared access with the guard at the entrance stating that he was the honorary British consul visiting a group of English yachtsmen. There were three groups of people sitting at the tables and four others propped up along the bar that extended right across one end of the room. Soon recognising the yachtsmen as foreigners, he walked right up to them.

‘Morning, I’m Stan Bullock, the honorary British consul. The secretary told me that there were some Englishmen at the club.’ Pointing at the entrance gate to the Parador’s grounds, ‘I’ve just come from the hotel. Usually stop over for a beer.’

Glen was the first to greet him. After introducing the three students and ordering a “
caña
” he said, ‘I think I’ve seen you before. You’re from Falmouth, aren’t you?’

‘Right. Small world, isn’t it?’

They spent the next half-hour talking about their voyage whilst Stan responded with his own anecdotes of consular work. ‘Our runs cover France, Spain and Portugal with all the sightseeing thrown in for free. This is our fourth year.’

Two of the university students were regular yachting fans although they had never gone beyond the Channel. ‘This is my first trip,’ said the third. ‘These two persuaded me to try it out and it’s been fantastic.’

It wasn’t until Jerry joined them that the conversation soon changed course. No sooner had Glen introduced him than Jerry flinched.

‘I think we’ve already met; a couple of years ago at the yacht club, the big one down the bay.’

Stan thought for a moment. ‘Of course. You were with a city gent from London.’ It was just after Gerardo, Yolanda’s ex-lover, had passed away. They had returned from the funeral that was held across in Cangas and stopped off at the club before going home.

‘It was a sad day. We’d lost a dear friend of the family.’

Suddenly death was brought into the conversation. Stan took the opportunity. ‘Talking about departed friends, I had to handle the case of a deceased yachtsman a few months back. Suicide. Strange case.’ He took a swig from his beer waiting for a response. It soon came.

‘Was his name Donald Simmons?’ asked Jerry.

‘Yes. That’s right.’ He looked at Glen. ‘Of course. Maiden Voyages; your agency.’ He took another sip. ‘Police are still not convinced though.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers, must be off otherwise the wife will holler.’

Glen and the students returned the gesture and added, ‘It’s nice to know our government cares about us amateur seamen.’ Jerry Fulton kept quiet.

Stan had made his mark. He didn’t need to prod any further. Jerry got off his stool and accompanied him to the door. Once outside the clubhouse, he came straight out with it.

‘You mentioned that the police were not convinced; what’d you mean?’

‘I believe the authorities have reopened the case and suspect foul play.’

‘What?’

‘Got a call from the civil guards; as British consul they’re obliged to advise me and keep me informed, that’s all.’

Jerry was obviously nervous even more than Stan had expected.

‘Should we be doing anything? I mean, our agency or any one of our staff in Cornwall?’

Stan hesitated before answering. He did it on purpose hoping that Jerry would mull over the information and assume that Her Majesty’s Government representative was neutral and oblivious to any ulterior motives other than following the instructions of the local authorities.

‘Not really, maybe a storm in a teacup, just thought I’d mention it, that’s all.’

Stan fired off one last dart. He reached into his wallet and handed Jerry a personal card. ‘Here, just in case.’ He pointed at the phone numbers. ‘You realise that I can’t be involved if any judicial process develops. I’m not even sure how serious or thorough their investigations are. I have no idea. However, give me a call and if there is anything I can do, within limits of course, I’ll be glad to assist. Give my regards to Ms Flashman.’

Stan was a bundle of nerves, completely hyped up. Rather than return to the car park he decided to go for a stroll along the Baiona seafront. It was past twelve-thirty and plenty of time to calm down before lunch. Without realising it, he was standing opposite the replica of the
Pinta
, the first caravel of Christopher Columbus’ fleet to arrive back after the discovery of America in the fifteenth century. It was berthed amongst dozens of yachts of all shapes and sizes. Stan was not alone. The wharf leading to the museum piece had a constant flow of visitors coming and going. As he started to walk back to the promenade he couldn’t help gazing at the marina and its immense flotilla of small craft. A large powerboat was docking a few yards away. For a couple of minutes Stan watched the crew busily preparing to secure a mooring. One of the sailors was hurriedly flipping the port-side fenders over the side as the craft was nearing the quay.

It hit him. Fenders.

When he returned to Vigo it was past one-thirty. The office had closed for lunch. He parked the car and went up to his apartment. Rather than angry, Yolanda was inquisitive. She politely asked where he’d been during the morning. Stan was at the wine cupboard searching for a bottle of Rioja.

‘Checking on a Brit in distress, dear, I’ll tell you all about it over a glass of wine; any olives?’

Later that evening he gave Sergio a call and told him about the visit to the Baiona Yacht Club, his meeting with
Serene Maiden
’s crew and his private conversation with Jerry Fulton.

‘When I mentioned Don Simmons and a possible investigation into his death, he nearly flipped.’

‘Great. Let him go back to England and stew, won’t be long before the reaction. Keep me informed of any developments.’

Before they hung up Stan asked about the fenders that had been found at the raided warehouse.

‘The place is still sealed off; why?’

‘Don’t lose sight of them.’

Serene Maiden
had no sooner docked and the three students sent on their way back to college than Jerry Fulton was careering up the wharf towards the company’s offices. He left Glen to mop up the debris and the leftovers of the voyage. He still wasn’t sure what action to take. He hadn’t even mentioned his last talks with the consul about opening the case on his partner’s death. During the last few days as they crossed the Bay of Biscay Jerry couldn’t keep his mind off Don’s death. He tried to keep calm and only the efforts of sailing back to England kept him from bursting out. As they neared the Cornish coast his anxiety began to mount. As he rushed in through the main hall, two customers were discussing a brochure with Joan Flashman. Before she could react he was passed the counter and into the back section of the office. He sat down at Joan’s desk and began to perspire heavily; his pulse rate was racing. Minutes went by that seemed like hours. He was still breathing heavily, as white as a sheet, as Joan walked in. The two customers had left. She took a tissue from the desk and wiped his forehead.

‘You’re shivering, man.’

After she used up another two mopping up the remains of his sweat, she asked, ‘What’s happened? Where’s Glen?’

Once he had calmed down he told her all about the last day in Vigo.

‘Mr Bullock didn’t give me any details except that he was at our disposal. Oh, and he sends his regards.’ Jerry pulled out his wallet and searched through it until he found Stan’s card. ‘Here’s his phone number.’

‘What about Glen?’

Jerry told her that he hadn’t told him a thing, just in case.

‘Good, let’s keep it that way for the moment.’

By the time Glen had arrived back at the office, Joan had already passed on the news to Mr Billson.

No sooner had Stan reported back on his encounter with the yachtsmen than Sergio was on the phone to the drug centre to kick off the next phase of the checks.

‘You really are a persuasive sod,’ said Paco, ‘thought you said the consul didn’t want to know?’

Sergio ignored the compliment. ‘I need to get to those two goons that are in prison, you know the ones we talked about. It’s tricky but it’s essential. I thought you could help, you know… check the layout… who they’re contacting… things like that.’

Paco hesitated as he wasn’t quite sure where to start. There were too many angles and loose ends to tackle.

‘I’ve got access,
amigo
, but it’s limited; you probably need an insider to make contact and gradually…’ It suddenly dawned on him. ‘Remember the Irish bagman, the one you saved from burning alive? You know he was eventually convicted for attempted manslaughter? He may still be in prison, maybe the same one as the Algerians. This I can find out right away without arousal. If so, he could do some sniffing for us. He owes you a favour. What do you think?’